A few months ago, Elite picked up a new van, a 2010 Chrysler Town & Country. For some reason I was picked to be the regular night shift driver for the new Cab #24 (meaning, with few exceptions, this is the cab I drive every time I work). I would like to think I was the lucky son of a bitch (sorry, Mom), picked to drive it because...
1. I keep the cabs I drive clean.
2. I don't run the cabs I drive into the ground.
3. I'm a great driver who doesn't disappear, unable to be located by the dispatcher.
But I suspect the two reasons I was picked to drive this magnificent beast was...
1. I don't bitch and moan about shit.
2. The original decision to put a different driver in Cab #24 was ultimately vetoed by the fleet owner because, for while I am a large man, this other guy is close to twice my size and wears out seats, and new seats for this van are over $800 (the cab is too new to find used seats). I think this is the first time I was chosen over someone else for being smaller than the alternative.
Anyways, Cab #24 needs a name, and I think as the first person to drive this rig as a taxi (despite it not exactly being street legal at the time), I should be the one to christen the fucker. Without putting a whole lot of thought into it, I am considering naming it "Black Betty" for the following reasons...
1. I like the idea of giving vehicles the pronoun of "she" despite the chauvinism of doing so.
2. She's black and shiny.
3. My love of heroin.
So, "Black Betty" is the name I'm playing with, though"Betty" may be better as not to sound too obvious. I should also probably put a little more than thirty seconds of effort into it.
Saturday I ran into an Elite Taxi day driver at Cumberland Farms, and he asked if I needed a ride back to the garage (or "The Pit" as us in the biz call it). I declined (I wasn't headed to work - I seldom work Saturdays). He then asked if I was indeed a night driver, and I confirmed that I am. The guy (whose name I do not recall) thought as much but wasn't convinced until he noticed my sneakers, orange Vans. The staff and drivers at Elite get a kick out of my kicks. Most of them are good ol' boys, and they have a hard time accepting things that aren't commonplace, passe, and utterly pedestrian. Regarding my footwear I usually receive one of two comments...
1. "Those sneakers look a lot like the ones they made me wear at the jail!"
2. "Wow! Nice pink shoes!" This comment especially irks me because, while these Vans have lost a lot of their vibrancy, they are still quite clearly orange. Even salmon would be a stretch.
The following are the more memorable passengers I had last Monday and Tuesday.
1. A man with a serious Elmer Fudd/Barney Frank speech impediment, pronouncing each "R" as a "W." Weally fwiendly guy howevew.
2. A mulletted woman I would guess in her late forties or early fifties with a red and white sweater depicting wolves and the heads of Indian chiefs and black pants with long chains, skulls and crossbones, and lots of superfluous zippers. You know, those stupid trousers you can purchase at your local Hot Topic. Nothing notable about this broad other than the attire, except her thinking she dropped a bunch of coins, but it was just her retarded fucking chains hitting the side of the van.
3. Exchange between a passenger and myself:
FARE: I prefer shopping during the day. The produce tends to be better.
GUAK: Sure.
F: What I mean is at night all the best stuff is gone.
G: I understand.
F: What I am saying is that all that is left is bumped and bruised and has been sitting out all day.
G: Yeah, I get it.
4. A man I picked up at his apartment and drove to his dialysis appointment. He smelled of sausage pizza, making my stomach growl and I got sooooooooo hungry. I fought the temptation for over four hours before breaking down and hitting the Burger King drive-thru. Then I felt really really gross.
I saw a man with a shopping cart Tuesday night on Congress Street, walking back and forth between Forest Avenue and State Street for three hours.
No comments:
Post a Comment